The Whitest Lace of Light
by Iced Blood
Summary: SEQUEL TO: "BEST I AM." What is a soldier without a war? What is a warrior without an enemy? They don't know, but they intend to figure out the answer. And they'll do it the same way they've done everything else: together. HitsuMatsu.
1. Echoes of Cold

_**Welcome, one and all, to something new. And hopefully, something special.**_

 _ **My name is Iced Blood.**_

 _ **To those of you who don't know me, welcome. To those who do, welcome back. I won't keep you long. Just a few words before we get started.**_

 _ **First, a warning off the top: this is a HitsuMatsu story. If you don't like this particular pairing, that's your prerogative. I don't judge or blame you. We're all good. But understand that I do like it, and this story is going to reflect that.**_

 _ **I understand that we're dealing with a controversial, polarizing couple. To any on the fence, please trust me when I say that I know what I'm doing.**_

 _ **But to any who won't be swayed: neither will I. Let's keep it civil, and part ways now. Okay? Okay.**_

 _ **Now, then. Some of you might be coming to this from an older story of mine, called "Best I Am." This particular tale is a continuation of its predecessor, and shares some common ground with it. Like that story, this will be a loosely connected sequence of snapshots. And like that story, it will hopefully shed light on all of our favorite Soul Reapers / Shinigami.**_

 _ **But, also like that story, we'll be focusing primarily on the heads of the Tenth Division. They're my favorites. And hopefully you like them, too.**_

 _ **It's been a long time since I've written for this series, and these characters. But I think it's time for another shot.**_

 _ **I dearly hope you enjoy what I, and they, have to say.**_

 _ **Let us begin.**_

* * *

 _ **.**_

* * *

The dragon's voice was loudest in the cold.

When the wind drove spikes like kitchen shears into his nerve endings, and gods whispered down his neck. When snow crunched beneath his feet, and his breath gained sentience; that was when he felt strongest. Most capable. Most _aware_. In those moments, and only those moments, he was able to trick himself into honestly believing he was alive.

In those moments, and only those moments, the dragon in his blood uncoiled, and rose up to sing.

Toshiro Hitsugaya sat—perched like a trained raptor on his own roof—and made every effort to commune with the night sky. With every exhale, he watched the whirling, swirling condensation before his eyes and danced with the dragon. There were no words; not right now.

Silence was like currency. No matter what he tried to do, though, Hitsugaya found himself unable to enrich himself during daylight hours. He had to wait for darkness. Most of the time, he was fine with this. It was during nighttime, after all, that dreams held court; and where best to entertain thoughts of warm blood and a beating heart than in the midst of a dream?

How long had it been, since his death? Hitsugaya didn't know. Hundreds of years. Thousands. Tens of thousands. It was impossible to tell. The moment-to-moment drudgery of office work and training drills kept him from thinking about the passage of time too much, and once you lost track of time once, there was almost no finding it again.

Not here. Not where every vestige of physical reality was an illusion, and every attempt at normalcy was a lie.

Tonight, though, for whatever reason, Hitsugaya found that his normal musings and meditations didn't aid him. They didn't amuse him, or bring any measures of comfort. The dragon's song didn't soothe him. It all nettled into him. Everything. Little pinpricks of white-hot cynicism, driving him to wonder if there was a point to all of . . . this.

Whatever _this_ was.

Soul Society. Where the spirits of the righteous dead dwell in peace, _in perpetuum_. And whence came such peace? Why, the 13 Imperial Divisions, of course! By blade and proverbial sinew did Hitsugaya and his peers, and his subordinates, give of themselves, rip asunder themselves, for the good of this lasting peace.

The eternal paradox of soldiery: to fight for peace, and kill for harmony.

"Why live? Why love? When even in death . . . there is _more_ suffering?" he eventually mused, into a night that he thought wasn't listening. "Why am I expected to fight, and die, when no blood runs through me? When no tears fall from my eyes?" He reached up with one hand, and pressed two fingers up against his right eye. "What _are_ these? Am I not dead? Have I not paid the ultimate price? Why suffer the hardships of life, without anything to balance it out?!"

The dragon felt no sympathy. No. The dragon felt only the cold, and exulted in the cold. The dragon only wished to soar, and the only time the dragon soared was when its master held sword in hand, and stood fast against that unfathomable enemy.

And so, the dragon longed for war.

Even when its master did not.

 _Especially_ when its master did not.

Toshiro Hitsugaya clenched his teeth, shut his eyes, and tried in vain to banish his doubts. But no matter what he did, no matter what he told himself, those doubts would not be moved. Not this night.

Just as he was sure that he would be conquered, just as the moment passed reckoning, and he knew tears would fall despite his greatest efforts, the cold disappeared. Just like that. One moment, it was all-encompassing, all-consuming. And the next, it was nowhere.

Hitsugaya felt her arms wrap around his neck, felt her press against his back, and with her presence came a jolt of shame like raw electricity. She'd found him. She'd _heard_ him. The one person, over all others, who should _never_ hear his weakness.

 _I'm sorry_. _I've failed you_.

"Don't be like that," she whispered into his ear, guessing his thoughts like she always did. "Loosen up a bit. O captain, my captain. Don't I keep telling you?"

". . . You should be asleep, Rangiku."

"Mm." Rangiku Matsumoto sometimes said more with a single inflection of sound than other people said in supercilious speeches. The shame came back, awash with new guilt, and he hung his head. Hitsugaya's chin rested against her arm.

There was silence. Even the dragon refrained from blaspheming against the quiet.

". . . There are a lot of things I don't know," said Matsumoto, in a meandering sort of voice. "I don't know why we're here. I don't know why time passes here, in this lofty land of spirits. I don't know why we have to fight. Why keeping the balance is left to us. I don't know how _cars_ work. But you know, I _do_ know _some_ things."

Hitsugaya's jaw unclenched with a _cracking_ sound that only he could hear. It echoed in his bones. Bones that weren't even real.

"Like what it's like to struggle with questions you can't answer." He hissed in a breath, and let it out through lips that quivered without his consent. "You should know better than to hide from me. Don't you think of me as your partner? In this and in all things? Don't you _love_ me?" She paused. "Don't you trust me?"

" _Of course I do_ ," Hitsugaya gasped out, unbidden, feeling like he was drowning.

"Shhhhh . . ." Matsumoto pulled him back against her, and he surrendered to her. "There we go. That's more like it." She brushed the back of one hand against his left cheek. "Mama Matsu will make it all better."

"Don't . . . call yourself that." Hitsugaya found a chuckle, hidden somewhere in his throat. "Don't be disgusting."

"Now _there's_ my captain's voice. I was wondering where it went."

Hitsugaya sighed, gave up trying to argue, and leaned his head back to look at the sky again. Just out of his line of vision, he could see the fiery sheen of Matsumoto's hair. He said: "I suppose I should know better than to try deceiving _you_ , of all people."

"That's right. You shouldn't." A pause. Her voice changed. "Hey. What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"I was paying you a compliment."

"Uh-huh. Sure you were."

"Could you just . . . let the moment breathe? I'm trying, here."

The wind brushed past them, hovered alongside them for the briefest glimpse.

". . . I know you are."

They sat there, two beacons of warmth and love in a world where death held sway, and waited for the sun—or whatever it was—to rise.

There were no answers.

But maybe that didn't matter.


	2. Idle Poetry

_**It's probably going to take a little bit of time for me to get back into the habit of writing these folks. While I've only recently finished Bleach — all 686 chapters of it — it's still been upwards of 4 years since I've written my first OTP.**_

 _ **My OTPrime, if you like.**_

 _ **I beg patience, as I get back into the swing of things.**_

 _ **For anyone new, who might be wondering about the character dynamics I'm working with, this is a direct sequel to my previous Bleach story, "Best I Am." The concepts, headcanons, dynamics, and arcs that came about in that narrative will return in this one.**_

 _ **I'm not necessarily saying you have to read BIA to appreciate this, but more that … we're taking a bit of an "in medias res" to the whole thing. Any HitsuMatsu fan looking to find out how I think our favorite Tenth Division miscreants got hooked up in the first place — the old story has the answers.**_

 _ **This one will only have echoes of the past.**_

 _ **We're headed for the future.**_

* * *

 _ **.**_

* * *

Matsumoto had a tendency to hum while she worked. Sometimes there wasn't any tune to it, no rhyme or proverbial reason. Sometimes, if he was in a waspish mood, Hitsugaya reprimanded her for her lack of focus. They were _working_ , after all. Honestly.

"Rangiku," he would say, in a much softer voice than he might have used three years ago, but still a sharper voice than was strictly _normal_ , "we're jointly responsible for 2,300 soldiers. You've been staring at that sheet of paper for 46 minutes. I know time is an illusion, but maybe you could try to imagine a little harder? I'd like to be finished with today's business before next week."

"Aye-aye, Cap'n," Matsumoto would say, with a jaunty little salute, and then she would go right back to whatever doodle she'd been scrawling in the corner of . . . what was this one, again? A preliminary drill efficiency report? What even _was_ that?

Other times, if he was in a decent mood, Hitsugaya would say nothing at all, and simply go about his business.

And if he was in a _good_ mood, she would spy him tapping his pen, or his finger, or whatever else he had on hand—was that a pun? Matsumoto wasn't sure—in time with the tune. It was a strong gauge through which she could work out whether it was a day to be on task, or a day when she could get away with . . . certain things. She liked the days when Hitsugaya went along with the music. Not so much because she could be lazy—although Matsumoto would have been outright lying if she'd tried to claim that wasn't a _perk_ —but because it meant he was in good spirits.

Another pun?

Matsumoto still wasn't sure.

One day, she started peppering in lyrics along with the tune.

"The ice drops like rain on our crops. Blood in our veins 'til our collective heart stops."

Or something like that. She didn't always write this stuff down. Sometimes she did. Little nonsense rhymes to help pass the . . . times. Whatever. Look. She wasn't claiming to be a minstrel.

"Hm?" Hitsugaya looked up, eyes sharp. "What? Did you say something?"

"No." Matsumoto waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing. Everything's fine."

"I definitely heard something." Bright green eyes went narrow as razor blades. "You said 'ice.'"

Matsumoto had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. "Of course you'd notice _that_." She snickered into her hand. Shook her head. "Nothing important. Just a . . . little poem I cooked up."

"You write poetry?"

This was a question that Rangiku Matsumoto had heard innumerable times before, and every time it was with a different shade of incredulity. Hisagi, Kira, Hinamori, even Kurosaki. Them, and a thousand others, all reacted the same way to the idea that the red-headed bombshell leading the Tenth's officers could be _cultured_. It wasn't even like she was particularly _good_ , really. She didn't consider herself an _artiste_ , or what have you.

But it always left her feeling dejected and insulted.

Assholes.

Short-sighted, sanctimonious, probably sexist assholes.

But Toshiro Hitsugaya asked the question in a different way. There was a particularity to his tone of voice that surprised her, and yet didn't surprise her at all. For the first time since she'd first let slip that she liked to wax poetic, That Question™ was asked with . . . not _just_ genuine interest.

Not _just_ a lack of mockery.

But with something like delight.

Matsumoto found a smile. "Sometimes," she said.

Hitsugaya leaned back in his chair. His eyes lost their razor's edge, going a bit cloudy. He smiled. "Excellent," he said, almost to himself, and nodded decisively. He pointed at Matsumoto with his pen. "Keep at it."

Matsumoto, eyes twinkling with unspoken gratitude, nodded.

"Aye-aye, Cap'n."


End file.
